


Neither the Heir, Nor the Spare

by sailor_palaven



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, no spoilers i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 03:52:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4862033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailor_palaven/pseuds/sailor_palaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of vignettes from Saoirse Trevelyan's reign as Inquisitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neither the Heir, Nor the Spare

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd collection of drabbles I did for my first Inquisitor, a Templar, and her mood board a while back.  
> Found on: priority-n7.tumblr.com/post/104753413746/priority-n7-saoirse-trevelyan-warrior

You are a fortnight shy of your eighteenth name day. Mother brushes your hair across your neck.

“Shoulders straight and chin up, love.”

“Mother, this is ludicrous.” She shushes you and proceeds to smooth the sleeves over your shoulders. You can see the painters eyes shift towards you and you give him a small shrug. What was the idea,though? Was she going to have this portrait hung up in the hall, showing it to dignitaries? Would this have been your life among nobility, posing?

Mother gives a small sigh and you turn to look at her. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but Maker forbid Lady Trevelyan breaks down. Still, her only daughter, swearing off her title and her life to the Order. This cannot be how she had planned it. The artist sets down his brush with a dull, frustrated clunk when you set down your sword and hug her. She’s shaking and you press your face into her hair, all expensive perfume and neat ringlets. You thank her, love her, murmur how this is honorable and right and _just_.

“I love you, my little wren.” And she pulls away, the definition of cool and composed. You resume your pose.

_Maker, my enemies are abundant._

_Many are those who rise up against me._

_But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,_

_Should they set themselves against me._

You are a fortnight shy of your Vigil.

* * *

Head spinning and stars dancing across your eyes you pull back. Angry shouts come from the crowd and you can see Matthew step forward. You wave him off and stand straight. Tobias is looking at you, horrified, about to stammer out an apology.

“Trev, it was dishonest, I’m sor-” Armour rattling, you elbow him in the ribs and grab his arm, bringing his head up with your sword beneath it.

“There is no honor among demons,” you say as blood trickles down the front of your chin. Relief washes over his face as you flash him a grin. You pull away from each other and decide to call it a draw, both exhausted from your spar. And as the crowd dissipates, Tobias puts your face between his hands and gingerly turns your head.

“You’ll need a healer for that.” The moment you crinkle your nose in distaste, you regret it, a dull pain hammering between your eyes.

“If I had wanted it remodeled, I would’ve asked for it,” you joke, giving him a playful jab.

“Now you’re a true hook-nosed noble, Trev.”

Well, won’t that make Mother proud.

 

* * *

How is it that after all this time in Skyhold you have yet to realize how bloody _freezing_ anywhere but the Marches it is? You want to move under the furs a little more but there’s a light touch wandering over your back. You don’t know what, but he’s drawing something over your shoulder, your back, coming to a point and then stopping, going back and trying again. You turn your head and give him a drowsy smile. He is so focused on the freckles peppered over you skin that he doesn’t notice you’re awake until you’ve pressed your lips to his pulse point. He pulls back, pink spreading slowly across his cheeks.

“Having fun?”

“They’re beautiful,” he says as he resumes his previous activity, drawing the map of Thedas onto your back for all you know. He never fails to mention how he loves them and you know he can go on for hours like this. “You’re beautiful.”

With that he hovers his mouth over your shoulder blade.

“Cul– _oh_!” He plants an open mouthed kiss to the same spot. Let the Fade take him, he knows exactly what this does to you, what he does to you. You can feel him smile, his scar brushing over your skin. If you had just known that all those days spent drenched in sea salt and sun would’ve amounted to this,well…

“Don’t start it if you can’t finish it.” He lifts his head and raises his eyebrows at you, his lips quirking into _that_ smirk. Moving under the furs, he carefully straddles your lower back and dips his head to your neck.

“Oh, I intend to,” he breathes.

And as he starts kissing his way across your shoulders and down your spine and as your eyes roll back and your hand grips his at your waist, you know you’ll have to spin a quick lie or two to Josephine as to why you’re going to be late this morning. Again.

* * *

This is ridiculous. Closing demon portals? Sure, you learned that easily enough. Rallying an army? Well, they had done that themselves, crowning you the Herald and whatnot. But solving the inner politics of corrupt factions? Just, no. Something, _anything_ to get you away from here.

Right. Now.

That’s when you catch sight of your Commander,striding across the courtyard towards the keep gates. You throw a quick ’ _If you’ll excuse me_ ’ to Josephine and the Revered Mother and catch up with Cullen.

“Maker bless you,” you whisper under your breath as you fall into stride with him. He cocks an eyebrow at you and shakes his head. “Hey, I put the Orlesian Empire back together in one night. Can I not come back to a few hours of peace?”

“I doubt following me will be any more interesting.”

“I don’t know about that,Commander, I have a pretty nice view.”

That makes him blush and you laugh. You feel bad for doing this to him but to be fair, you don’t get very many opportunities to make him blush.

“Where are you going anyway?”

Standing at the gates are some eighty-odd armored men and women, all poised in perfect rows.

“New recruits,” he offers. He turns to address the mass of people but you tune out.

This is what will never cease to amaze you. To some, if not to most, in Thedas you are a myth. A story. A rumor passed around groups of hopeless and helpless refugees. But to have them come here and pledge their lives based on nothing but said rumors intimidates you. At a glance you judge that some of these people have yet to see their sixteenth summer. You're petrified and it’s Cullen’s voice that reels you back to reality.

“Inquisitor? Was there anything you wished to say?”

You blink at Cullen, dumbstruck and then turn to the recruits. Say something, right.

“I…uh…On behalf of the Inquisition, we would like to thank you for your courage and will and…” Cullen discretely presses his hand to the small of your back, urging you on. “…and we appreciate that in a time like this you have chosen to bring back order to all of our homes.”

The recruits are looking at you, are they expecting something else? _What else do I say?_

“That is all, you are dismissed,” Cullen barks. They bow their heads and salute before they maneuver their way around you two. You’re shaking and Cullen’s raising his arm to comfort you when there’s a yell a yard off.

“Trevelyan! Move!” You whip your head towards the source of the voice but the apparent leader of the troupe is looking over your shoulder. Following her eyes, you turn to see a lone knight in the middle of the entrance staring dumbfounded at…you? He removes his helmet revealing a scruffy face of a man in his late thirties, cheeks hollowed from exhaustion, dark rings under his steel grey eyes. You know those eyes, you remember the crinkles around them when he smiled and hugged you and gave you his firstborn to hold.

“You couldn’t train a mabari and now you’re the Inquisitor?” he chokes out.

You want to smile, you want to laugh but there’s air stuck in the back of your throat and your elbows and knees are locked. It’s his tentative step forward that lurches you towards him, all formality brushed aside. You hug him as best you can over his armor, scared that he’ll leave or the wind will take him away because how is this real? You choke out his name into his shoulder and his face is in your hair, you can feel something dampening your cheeks. He smells of leather and sweat and iron and the sea, the freezing sea he’d toss you in after the rain. You’re shaking when you pull his face in to kiss him on the cheek, on his nose. And when you do pull apart, he’s smiling like a madman. He brushes a tear from your eyes and kisses you on the forehead.

“Come now,” he whispers, “this is unbecoming of a lady.”

You choke out a laugh but wipe your face anyway. There’s nobody behind you save for Cullen who’s cocked his head to the side, a questioning look on his face.

“Camden Trevelyan,” you say as you drag him to Cullen, “my brother.” You’re beaming and they exchange salutes.

You’re overwhelmed with joy and questions, so many questions. He’s married, what about his family, his son, his wife? Has he heard from Mother or Father? Has he talked to Gideon?

“Saoirse,” Camden starts. The joy written over his face is now replaced with a hard look. He’s quiet and you give his hand a squeeze.

“Well, have you heard from him?”

“He left to be a Templar.” Of course he did. He was the youngest Trevelyan, that was tradition, you daft… _you_. He glances at Cullen but you catch that and suddenly your stomach’s twisting.

“Camden…”

“He was last stationed at Theirinfall Redoubt.”

You here a muted _'I’m sorry'_ as the world gives out from under your feet.

* * *

You tug the shawl tighter around your shoulders as a slight breeze blows by. Cullen’s leaning next to you, both of you silent.

“Are you alright?” You give a light chuckle.

“I just can’t believe this party’s still going. I mean, people died here and nobody seems to care now. It’s like it never happened.”

“Orlais and other mysteries of the world,” Cullen offers.

“Well that and Josephine actually made me change back into this,” you say as you stand upright and motion to your dress. Cullen’s leaning on his elbow as he gives you an appreciative glance,and then some.

“I mean it is lovely and all but really…” you trail off. He comes to stand in front of you and runs a finger along your collarbone.

“I can’t say it does you justice,” he whispers and _Maker_ , can he not look straight into your eyes when he does that? You blush and stare at your toes, mumbling a quiet thank you. You give an involuntary shiver, not sure if it’s due the breeze that rolled by or his fingers tracing the junction of your neck and shoulder.

“I know it’s foolish but I was worried for you tonight.” His thumb comes up to trace your jawline as you look up at him and tilt your head into his hand.

The cheer of the crowd inside startles you and when you look back, Cullen has the sliest grin plastered on his face. You cock an eyebrow at him and he pulls away from you.

“I may never have a chance like this, so I must ask” he whispers. Even before he bends and extends his hand, even before the words leave his lips and they quirk up into a smirk, you know and your eyebrows shoot up in amusement. You say yes, because of course you do. Anything to feel his hands on you and him near you like this, for these moments are few and far between. You haven’t danced in so long, you’re probably shaming all those years of the famous Trevelyan etiquette. It’s a long shot from proper form, from proper anything but you don’t care. Your eyes are closed and you’re leaning your head on his cheek and you can’t help but take the opportunity to tease him about dancing.

“For you, I’ll try,” he breathes into your ear.


End file.
